Cognitive Dissonance
by ink and ashes
Summary: A vampire is born into the Cullen brood, armed only with the vague inclinations of a girl she cannot remember, and the many secrets that haunt her beloved sire. New Moon A.U.


**NOTE: **So, I'm not a huge fan of first-person perspective, or of present tense, and my attention span starts to cry whenever I write a chapter over two thousand words_. _I, some-fucking-how, did all three, and my muse is appalled at me. Expect slow updates for this, dears. Just in case, this is in no way related to my other story, _Masquerade_. This is just another story written because... well, why else would you write a story? Exactly. Also? Fanfiction-dot-net seems to like chopping off random words in my paragraphs; I'll try to catch them, but my eyes are human, after all.

**THANKS: **To Whimsy, who reads my everything, even with her busy schedule and the motley crew of quadmates she's managed to adopt. Much love, soul sistah._  
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_Cognitive Dissonance_

**PART ONE**

It's as I allow the warm carcass to fall that I remember the girl named Isabella Swan.

Thick, smooth, creamy syrup coats my tongue, my lips, my hands. Tiny red rubies drip from my fingers, slow and teasing as they caress each knuckle before the descent, and I lap at my appendages greedily. I am full and content, but I want more. _So_ much more. I want to sip and sip of this vermillion ambrosia, I want to roll each droplet in my mouth and savor its delicious texture, I want to bathe and wallow in it until I am forever stained. My fantasies wane once my hand has been licked clean, my focus darting to the other, equally drenched and a bountiful snack. I imagine a crystal goblet, overflowing with this sweet wine, swirling in my grasp, and I moan with longing. I need more. My body sings with pleasure, surging with the life I have stolen. I suck on my thumb like an infant, relishing this new and wonderful taste, when my nose detects the other.

Earth, pine and endless sunshine. My eyes slide closed. The musk of male, cloaked within a strange blend of sugar and spice that stings my nose. I want it. I inhale again, enraptured, reveling in the bittersweet burn. He is a sip of vanilla chai. _Mine_. My gaze seeks its source hungrily, blindly searching until I encounter a pair of eyes of crimson indulgence.

"Bella," he says, his scent still fresh in my dead lungs. Waves of sunlit gold shadow his face, and I raptly watch a strand that settles in the corner of his mouth.

Her name was Bella. My name is Bella.

I take a step forward, compelled by the need to weave my fingers through his hair, to trace the contours of his cheeks, his lips, the cleft of his chin. His scars are many and I yearn to feel them, am saddened and filled with sympathy as I spot another, and another, and another. He is beautifully marred and beautifully made. What an enchanting creature. What malice has befallen him? I take another step.

His voice, when he speaks again in that timbre of velvet thunder, is cautious. Does he think I will attack him? "Bella," he says, his brow furrowing. "Do you know who I am?"

No. Yes. I do not know. He is familiar and foreign and bright amid the evergreen paradise that surrounds us, a statue of milk and honey. I want to know him. I _need _to. "You know my name," I say, curious. I am at a disadvantage. How does he know me? I must remember him. "What's yours?"

He does not seem pleased. Reluctantly, he obliges. "Jasper."

I hum with approval. I smile, hoping to ease the tension I can sense, even from such a distance. "It's lovely," I compliment truthfully.

Jasper seems confused, staring at me. "You… you don't remember me?" He takes a step slowly, gauging my reaction. When I continue to smile, he takes another. "You don't remember _anything_?"

"Should I?" I have a suspicion that this should alarm me, but whatever I've forgotten must not have been so important if I could not remember it. He is so uneasy, so unsure, and I wish to placate him. How do I reassure him? He is beautiful, he smells like a dream, and I am giddy with excitement. Did he accompany me for my meal? If so, he must be a friend. A companion. This notion pleases me, though I am remorseful that, in my lost memories, there may be a history with this ethereal man that I cannot recall. There is a pull I feel in my chest, urging me to close the yards between us. A thought occurs to me. "Did you…" I search for the words, finding a combination that sounds unfamiliar and right. "Are you my…" I am embarrassed, and I am irritated at my own foolishness. I must have heard the title before, why else would it float so easily to the surface? "Mate?" I blurt, and the warm buzz of mortification has me bristling. It is too intimate, too personal, but I am desperate to know.

His red eyes are large. He does not speak for a moment, and I wonder why he hesitates. "No," he finally admits, and I am devastated. Such a shame. "I'm your sire."

That was my second guess. It explains, at least, why I am drawn to him; why he does not inspire fear, why his scars do not alarm me, why I trusted him before he'd given me his name. My blood is in his eyes, his venom runs through my veins. Symmetry. Poetry. My preference runs strong for the first connection, but I am lucky that there is one at all, and there is plenty of time for change. I can hope. "Why?" I ask, overcome with curiosity. I want to know everything.

"I…" he begins. He looks away. "Let's get you back to the house, Bella. I can explain everything there."

A house? We have a home together? My belly flutters with nerves and I am eager to run, to jump, to _fly_. "Sure," I chirp and allow him to lead me at a snail's pace. We walk through the woods, my bare feet hopping over tree roots and scattered twigs. The silk of my bloodied dress flirts with the skin of my thighs as I play. I begin a game, challenging myself to avoid as many obstacles while using only my toes as leverage, and I succeed in amusing myself for a few seconds before I am bored with this folly. I leap once, exploding with energy, and entangle myself in a web of branches. I leap again, and land atop another tree. Several moments pass before my companion calls for me. I giggle and try to remain as still as possible.

Sadly, he finds me with ease. I giggle again in the face of his exasperation. "The house is the _other_ way," he says.

"Can we run?" I plead. I seize the opportunity and tug on his shirt. "_Please_?"

He sighs on a breath he does not need and nods. Without another word, he leaves in a blur and I follow happily. I catch up easily, frolicking beside him, and I weave through the trees around us. I want to play with him. I nudge him, but he does not respond. I am persistent and I shove his shoulder until he looks at me. He is _going_ to play with me, whether he wants to or not. Sire he may be, but I refuse to be denied. "Jasper," I call.

He interrupts me. "We're here."

I stop, still standing in the shadow of the woods as he trots ahead a few paces, halting in a small clearing. There is a building erected, its foundation melting into the dense cluster of trees around it. I pause to observe this house of ours, scanning the strange architecture of warm wood jutting out from cold stone; it is not at all the kind of dwelling I thought we would share, and certainly not to my tastes, but there is all the time in the world for change. It's just a house. There will be others, I hope optimistically. Others that we can make our own. There are strange scents surrounding the home, but I am too distracted with Jasper's to pay them any heed, too intoxicated to feel cautious. I am jubilant, daydreaming and imagining the future before us, and I tackle Jasper from behind, shaking with laughter and infinitely content.

A shadow falls upon us, blocking out the gray light of the clouds above. The scent is mellow and foreign. I am crouched and growling over Jasper's prone form—I must remember to control my strength from now on, I suppose—before I realize what I am doing. More shadows approach, each one with eyes of brilliant amber, and my hackles rise with each threat. Who are these people? Why are they in our home? My fingers curl into talons, digging into the soil beneath me.

"Bella?" says one. A man with bronze hair and features I vaguely recognize, but cannot clearly define. Yet another person that knew my name. "Bella, do you remember me?"

That seems to be the question of the day. My growls do not subside, even when Jasper picks himself up and kneels beside me, a large hand on my shoulder. "Relax," he murmurs soothingly. I feel a blanket of calm settle over me, thick and unnatural. My displeasure is stifled, my anger abated, though it still simmers in a niche I cannot access. I trust my sire, but I do not trust my emotions. My instincts are roaring, aggravated and unhappily leashed, but I lack the motivation to continue my defensive stance; I stand and step closer to Jasper, my eyes never leaving the new arrival as a low rumble vibrates in my chest. The next words spoken through those precious lips, however, kill the sound and steal the wind from my sails. "_This_ is your mate, Bella." I stiffen, staring at the aforementioned stranger. "Edward."

_Edward_. _Mate. _The name feels awkward and when I test it on my tongue, the syllables are rough. "Ed… ward." I shake my head, petulant as a child, and move impossibly closer to Jasper. I grip his shirt, tearing the fabric with my nails. The name and the word do not fit together. This must be a joke. "That's not funny," I say, glaring at the man named Edward. I know, instinctively, that he is a vampire as surely as Jasper and I, but his eyes are strange. His smell is strange. I do not want him—I want Jasper and I want him to cease this silly game he is playing. These lies do not humor me.

Edward looks at me, his lips tilting into a deep frown, before his yellow eyes dart to my sire, fierce and hard. He growls and I answer with one of my own, but his words are meant for Jasper. "What did you say to her?" Edward demands. How _dare _he speak to Jasper in such a way? My fury is squashed by another sheet of calm and I try to fight against it.

Jasper becomes tense beneath my fingers, and that damnable calm continues to beat at me. "Bella, _please_, relax." He pauses before whispering, "Hate _me_, not him."

How did…?

"_Jasper can feel and manipulate the emotions of the people around him." _

The words come to me, spoken as if through a pane of glass. I cannot recall the speaker, I cannot recall the situation, but the information feels right. A tidbit of knowledge I once held true. I quiet myself immediately, acquiescing to the request. I glance at Jasper, noting the frown wrinkling his brow as he stares at Edward, and I am sorry I did not remember sooner. _Empath. _What else did I know, and not know, about him? Shame nibbles at me. Did I cause him pain? I certainly hope not. "I'm sorry," I apologize, willing him to look at me. He does not. Instead, I feel tranquility seep through my pores, and though a part of me resents the intrusion, I can only sigh as the last of my ill will evaporates. Perhaps my compliance will reassure him that I could never hate him. _Never_.

My sudden change in demeanor seems to fuel Edward's ire. He is still, rigid, but I know the instant he strikes; he gives away his ploy with the twitch in his jaw, the murder in his stare, the coiling of his legs. My mind calculates the trajectory and I intercept him inches from Jasper's throat, my hands around his neck. I will _not_ allow this foolish boy his folly.

I am screeching, hissing, snarling. I crush the muscle and bone beneath my palm, relishing his pain, swimming in it. He will pay for this transgression—I will settle for nothing less.

"_Bella!_" cries one of the shadows, at the same time that another cries, "_Edward!_"

I screech and squeeze again. I am not pleased at the sound of our names together. Just the thought brings forth the urge to kill, and I am more than willing to do so. Will my sire be pleased with me, I wonder as I begin to pull the flesh apart. Will he watch with pride as I tear this interloper to pieces? Will he reward me? Will he see that, while I may be his protégé, I am more than able to stand by his side as an equal? My whimsical hope distracts me from my task, and a pair of arms disentangles me from my prey. I know without looking that it is Jasper, and I do not struggle against him, but it does not dissuade me from sending the crumpled heap of bronze-haired vampire a poisonous glare. Pathetic. _Weak_. It was child's play. How could that useless _thing_ call himself a vampire? He had not struggled in my grasp, not once, and I want to kick him just for the waste of perfectly good venom.

I smirk as Jasper gently sets me down. He does not look at me, for which I am sorely disappointed, but his hand rests on the small of my back, rubbing small circles that make me preen; he does not speak, but I feel a burst of pride that I do not recognize as my own, and my smirk ebbs into a beaming smile. I made him proud. A happy grin for a happy girl. I want to clap and hop and twirl around, but as two of the yellow-eyed shadows were carrying Edward into the dwelling, I suppose I should refrain from my glee. Jasper watches the scene I caused without a twitch, the fingers dancing across my spine a secret we share.

A tiny sprite of a vampire, no taller than I, steps away from the other two that have remained. Her short hair defies gravity in little tufts that make me want to tug and play. She moves as if she is hopping between puffs of clouds, light and airy. I imagine that she will make a wonderful playmate. Perhaps, I can convince her to tip-toe amongst the stars with me one night.

My easy mood shatters when Jasper pushes me forward, just enough to separate us by several centimeters. I am confused. Did I do something wrong? I look at him, searching for answers, only to find his eyes are riveted to the little brunette I want to giggle and chatter and dive into the cosmos with. Jealousy stabs me hard, gnawing at my insides, and all nighttime daydreams are forgotten. "Go into the house," Jasper tells me, soft and stern. He refuses to meet my gaze. My feet do not want to comply, and my dead heart agrees with them. With good reason. Who was this woman that returns Jasper's stare so easily, with such familiarity that spoke of intimacy? I want to throttle her for the audacity. Instead of tugging on her little tufts, I may just rip them off, piece by piece, until her scalp is bare and there is nothing left to entice anyone, much less my empath—for he is _mine_. No other can have him. "_Isabella_," he says. His voice is steel. _Finally_, his attention returns to me, but it is only because I am growling again, though I have not been aware of it until now. "The house," he grinds out.

How dare he? I am livid, I am torn, I am hurt more than words could ever convey. He does not spare me another glance, and the betrayal cuts deeper. "I am _not_ a dog," I growl, my voice hard. I am thankful that my undead body will not allow me the luxury of tears, for I know that if I had the capability, I would have cried fitfully, even in my rage. Jasper does not flinch, nor does he pay me any heed. There is a vicious tightening in my chest. He would toss me aside, for _her_? Why? A portion of me understands that I am unstable, that my rapidly cycling emotions are simply a byproduct of said instability, but it does not stop me from visualizing her body in a pyre.

A towering giant moves to my side, hesitantly touching my arm. A short, hissing bark is his only warning, and he wisely steps back. "C'mon, Bells," says the ogre with a pretty face. The moniker is a warm trickle of reminiscence that I find rather touching. My tension abates minutely. "I'll let you beat me in an arm wrestle."

What an endearing boy. "What's your name?" I ask.

He wears the same befuddlement Jasper had after my meal. A tinge of guilt runs through me, as it is obvious that these people know me, but I cannot help my memory. "Emmett," he supplies. He gestures towards the woman standing behind him. "That's Esmé. She's the mom of the family," he adds with a little smile. "That's Alice," he says, pointing at the sprite, who was _much _too close to Jasper. Emmett notices my hostility and quickly moves on. I am grateful. "The one you almost decapitated—awesome shit, by the way—is Edward. The blonde guy you saw? That's Carlisle. He's the dad," he explains, and I cannot rein in my smugness that another finds my handling of Edward to be impressive. Emmett and I will be good friends, I predict. "And the hot blonde chick? That's my Rosie. Her name's Rosalie, so be careful; she throws a fit if anyone calls her Rosie."

_That's my Rosie_. His devotion is obvious, and he is not afraid to express it. What a sweet, helpful boy. I smile and begin walking towards the house. "Before I wipe the floor with your arm, do I have a change of clothes around here?" I tug on the thin hem of white material, and accidentally rip it. "The blood on this thing is messing with my head." Oh, if only that were the whole of it.

I reach the door, but Emmett opens it before I can, holding it for me. Such a sweetheart, this one. I don't even mind the strange eyes anymore. "We've got more girly shit here than a fucking _Barbie_, Bells. Are you kidding me?" He closes the door behind once the three of us are inside. Distantly, I know that the one named Esmé is behind us, quiet and observant. I eye the open, immaculate floor plan, the pristine, white-on-white color scheme. If my dress was not splattered with blood, and I stood by a wall, would anyone find me? Emmett brings me out of my musing, pointing to the staircase that led to the second floor. "Pick a closet and roll around until something stays on."

I hear a snicker and I turn to find Esmé hiding her amusement behind her hand. "Oh, Emmett. _Really_." She laughs again. I enjoy the smooth sway of her voice. It sings like a lullaby. She comes closer and I allow it; I find no reason to feel threatened. Not from this gentle woman. "If you'd like," she says, her eyes warm and kind on me, "I can find something comfortable for you to wear. Would you like a shower? We have extra towels, and I'm sure there's a fragrance that you'll agree with. Do you prefer soap or shower gel?" I think she is speaking to herself more than me. I find it interesting and comical and so very welcoming at the same time. "Sponge? Loofah? Is there a particular brand of shampoo you use? Would you like conditioner?" I notice Emmett edging away, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of feminine hygiene. I try not to giggle. Esmé spies my suppressed humor, and I realize that I've failed. "Don't you laugh at me, young lady," she admonishes, feigning severity. It makes me want to giggle harder. "Most of our kind prefers a quick rinse, but there's no harm in being thorough. _Especially _after such a long hunt."

This brings me up short. "Long?" I ask, my brow wrinkling. "_How_ long?"

My generous hostess is suddenly very serious. She takes her time in answering, and when she does, it is notably soft. "You've been gone for three weeks, dear."

I frown. Three weeks? That _is_ a long time. Something troubles me at the revelation, but I cannot fathom what it could be. I am unsettled. Anxious. _Worried_. But why? Why does the time frame matter so much? Why does it bother me that I had spent three weeks in the woods with my sire? Had I run away from my alleged mate—I want to spit at the word—and Jasper came to retrieve me? Was _that_ why everyone seems so hesitant in my presence? Why can't I remember? The questions circle in my mind like hungry vultures, until I forcefully push them aside. I need to prioritize. Shower, first. Clothes, second. The inquisition, later. Much later, if Emmett still wants that arm wrestle. I have a feeling that boy is too competitive for his own good, and will undoubtedly hound me for rematches until the need to feed becomes a mutual priority.

I paste on an honest smile. Now is not the time for doldrums. "I just want to be clean," I tell Esmé, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand_. _Emmett had already disappeared. _Coward_, I think fondly. "Do you have a formula for making vampires pretty again?" After three weeks of rolling around, I realize, I must look _horrible_. I feel vain and that does not bode well with me, but I cannot deny the tiny shudder of revulsion that flows through me. Jasper must have been absolutely _disgusted_.

"You are a vision, darling," assures Esmé, and I understand why she is the mother; when she says something like that, one cannot help but _believe_ her. I almost do. "But your dress is a lost cause, I'm afraid."

I giggle. "I think I'll survive."

Esmé beams at the poor excuse of the joke, and I feel accomplished that I made her do so. "We'll find you a replacement," she says.

I shake my head. There's no need for that. It's just a dress. "Don't worry about it."

She mimics me, refusing to relent. "That was a gift. You _will_ have another."

I frown again. "A gift?" I ask. "For what?" If she says it is from Edward, I vow to rip it off this instant.

"Your birthday." She seems troubled, and I amend my vow: I will not ask Esmé anymore questions.

I chew on this new bit of information while I ask my hostess where I can find this elusive shower. She walks me up the steps and shows me to a thin closet in the hall, where the shelves are bursting with towels, and there are enough products to wash, scrub and pamper a thousand filthy souls. I suspect she has been itching for the opportunity to put a dent in her endless supply.

I cannot, in good conscience, deny her a thing. Extra moisturizing soap scrub? I suppose. Revitalizing shower gel with aloe vera? What? Yeah, okay, I guess. Loofah? What _is_ that? Oh, it goes with the shower gel? _How?_ No, no, I'll use it, Esmé. _Please, don't pout. _Lotion? _Why would I need that? _Bubble bath? …But I'm taking a _shower. _Shampoo? I giggle at the word, until she shoves a bottle that claims to be strawberry scented beneath my nose. I recoil. She tries another, and another, and eventually, I settle on one that has no scent, but promises extra shine—_What _shine? Will my hair gleam like metal in the sun?—and has a matching conditioner. The image in my head does not seem pleasant, but I accept yet another product. It's only hair, after all.

The towels are the worst part. Fluffy is my only preference, and my only requirement, but I am told there is _so_ much more to choosing a towel than the feel of it. Do I want pink? Blue? Teal? Orange? Green? White? Purple? What about fish, do I want fish? Two fish? A sea of fish? A mermaid? An octopus? An _orange_ octopus? Bubbles? Oh! What about a washrag, do I need a washrag? I am confused, because I am sure the loofah does something too, but no. They serve different purposes. _How? _They look the same to me. Wait, did I decide on a towel yet?

_Damn it, Esmé_.

Many fried brain cells, a heated debate on the benefits of staying dirty versus getting cleaned, and a very discombobulated Bella later, I am juggling a mountain of supplies atop a bright pink towel—because I do not _care_—into the females' lavatory. Esmé closes the door behind me and I dump the entirety of my treasure trove of hygiene products onto the large counter of the illuminated vanity. Caps fly across the room and scuttle around the floor, and I promise myself that I will clean up once I'm finished, but I need a minute to sort through this mess. What was what? What _did_ what? I read over the labels and inevitably swipe all but the towel and the lotion—what was the need for that again?—into the bedroom-sized shower stall. I am sure that, once I get in there, I will have plenty of time to sort through that disaster.

Stripping proves to be much easier than I expected; I try to lift the dress over my head, and only succeed in tearing it into shreds. The scraps of fabric are tossed into the waste bin without another thought. I purposely do not acknowledge the mirror. As I pass by the large, porcelain tub that sits by a neglected toilet, I feel the urge to submerge myself in piping hot water. I want to swim around like the fish on Esmé's utopia of towels, and blow bubbles all day long… but wallowing in my own dirty water does not sound appealing. I continue to the stall.

My first issue in what is quickly becoming an escapade, is the shower door. It is glass. _Glass_, in a house full of vampires. When I go to slide it closed behind me, the glass shatters. I tense and wait for someone to barrel into the room, condemning me for destroying their home, as it has long since been apparent that this is not _my_ home at all, like I initially assumed. After a few moments, I think the coast is clear and I pick up the broken shards, discarding them in the bin atop my ruined dress. I rationalize to myself that, if I am careful, I can still shower without drenching everything. I just need to control my strength, and I can, _perhaps_, get away with breaking the glass panel. There's still _one_ panel left. That has to count for something.

My problems escalate. The knob breaks when I twist it. The soap is putty in my hands. I somehow rip the loofah apart. The washrag is a pile of thread. The sponge? _Pfft. _The bottles are crushed in my grasp, the goop within landing in sloppy puddles all over the tiled walls. I try to wash the gunk off, and discover that, besides a painful mixture of smells, I can also make foam.

A _lot_ of foam. It spills onto the bathmat and floods the room, the torrent overpowering the drain on the floor. There is foam _everywhere_.

I am horrified. I am mortified. I don't know what to do. A low whine starts in the back of my throat, but I swallow it back before I lose myself in despair. What do I do? _What do I do? _As the jets from the showerhead feed the bubbly chemical reaction, I hasten from the stall to grab the towel. Steam fills the room. The ground is slippery, with the creeping foam crawling up my shins, and my feet cannot find purchase. I flail in a whirlwind of limbs in my attempt to maintain my balance; I shatter the mirror, break the counter, rip off a fourth of the tub and, as I scramble away from my bath-time apocalypse to hide in the stall, I shatter the last glass panel.

The final straw is the towel that shreds when I wrap it around my sudsy, foamy, slippery body.

The keening I had kept at bay erupts as I huddle in a corner, my knees drawn up to my nose in the stall where it all began. I am naked and sticky and surrounded by that _despicable _foam, curled up amid the mess I have made through sheer stupidity and a strength I cannot moderate. My whining mingles with the steady spray of the showerhead, and the ocean of foam swirls around my shoulders. How did this happen? It was just… I just wanted… A dry sob escapes my throat. I cover my face with my hands, and yelp when I inadvertently get some of the soap into my eyes. The whimper in my esophagus grows louder without my permission.

I want Jasper. He would not have allowed this to happen. My sire would have taught me, helped me. Instead, he's making goo-goo eyes at that Alice woman, and _not_ fixing this problem. I cannot think. I am completely lost, my mind as useful as that fragile glass I destroyed so easily. I want Jasper. I want to cry. I want to be clean. I want the foam to suffocate me. My world is crumbling, and he's not here. He should be here. _I want Jasper_.

At first, I think the loud _crack_ is confirmation that I broke myself somewhere along the way, but when I hear my name, I peer over my knees to see yellow eyes and one pair of red surveying the scene of my accident after tearing down the wooden door. The fog slowly filters into the hall. Doors, I deduce, are not safe from the undead. They are designed for humans, with human needs, without the ability to tear apart the entire room in a bout of clumsiness, and while I do not have a valid excuse as to why I broke everything, _they_ do not have an excuse as to why they broke down their own door. I realize that I am nonsensical, rambling in an effort to distract myself from the reality that there are people witnessing my monumental failure as I am nude. In a corner. Drowning in foam. And whining like a dog.

Perhaps I deserve that idiot of a mate they call Edward. I certainly do not act in a manner that says I deserve more.

Emmett is the first I can distinguish because of his hulking frame, and he is smiling at me. "Aw, Belly-monster," he coos. My terrible mood lightens marginally, but I cannot return his grin.

As if privy to my most desperate wish, Jasper carefully steps toward me, his eyes scanning the overall damage but returning to me every time. His redolence drives away the sting of chemicals. I am pouting, sulking, and utterly distraught when he finally squats by me, streams of water soaking his clothes, his hair, and rolling off his skin. It does not seem to bother him. "Bella?" his voice is soft, as if he is talking to a child. I am acting like a child, so I guess it's fair. "What happened, darlin'?"

The endearment strikes a chord in me. I can feel my bottom lip jutting out as I try to stifle my cries. I want to crawl into his lap and bawl until I no longer feel so _stupid_. "You weren't here," I finally say. I am _pathetic_.

"I know," he says ruefully. He had _better_ rue his error in judgment. Were it not for his irresponsibility, I would have been fine. I lay all of this at his feet, and I hope he knows this, because I am entirely too upset to explain all of it. I cross my arms belatedly, and hum with a smidgeon of happiness when he strokes my wet hair. Better late than never, I suppose. "I'm sorry about that." I think he understands my silence. "I promise, it won't happen again."

Esmé stands behind Jasper, concerned. In her arms is a plain white towel. I officially love this woman. "We'll get you cleaned up, honey," she assures, and I am shocked that she is not furious with me.

"But… I broke your loofah," I confess, although my crimes are much worse.

She smiles. "I have more."

"But…" I sputter, confused. Her acceptance does not feel normal. She should be screaming, hissing… _something. _"I… I broke your _house_."

Esmé shrugs. "We were going to relocate soon, anyway." She opens the towel, beckoning me. "Come on, dear."

I stare at her, floored by her sincerity. I want to curl into that fluffy fabric she holds, but my eyes land on Jasper, move to Emmett and who I am sure is his Rosie, slide over to the frowning Alice, and return to Jasper before beseeching Esmé without speaking. My pride is as substantial as the foam that covers us, but I will not irrevocably expose myself thus. Naturally, it is Jasper that feels my renewed distress, that understands my shyness, and with another little pat on my sticky head, he ushers the others out of the room, leaving Esmé and I alone in the ruins of the lavatory. She envelops me in the towel, wrapping me like a burrito and tucks in the ends so that I can wear it as a dress, and her scent soothes me when I inhale. Refreshing and herbal, like tea. It reminds me of Jasper and his sweet and spicy chai.

We slosh through the foam, and it's not until we venture into the corridor that I realize the extent of the damage. The second floor has become a waterfall of suds, foam and contaminated liquid gushing down the hall in a white river that slithers across the hardwood floors, faltering at the staircase and flowing down the steps. I peak over the banister and my eyes widen as the foam spreads like a plague, soaking into the shag throw rug, infecting everything in its path. Jasper, Alice, Emmett and his Rosie are down there with buckets, scooping up loads and tossing what they can out of the open door. As I watch, Emmett instigates a game, splashing the girls, and they return the favor.

The tall blonde man I figure is Carlisle steps out of a room on the opposite side of the hall. I wrench my gaze away from the sight of Alice playfully splashing Jasper to look at the patriarch of this coven. I expect him to spit fire at me for attacking one of his own, for destroying his home, and though I refuse to concede on the first point, I have no excuse for the second. I tense and silently dare him to do his worst.

He surprises me. "What happened?" he asks.

Esmé places a hand on my shoulder. "Bella had a mishap in the shower," she explains with a smile.

They call this a _mishap?_ My astonishment knows no bounds.

"Ah," he intones, nodding. He levels me with a sympathetic look. "You must be quite frustrated, dear," he tells me. Is _he_ an empath too? "If you have a spare moment this evening, I'd be happy to answer any of the questions I'm sure you've been collecting." I gape at him. How does he _know?_ "I gather it's time we went house shopping?" he asks Esmé, who giggles at her mate. Carlisle smiles, and I understand why these two work so wonderfully together. They are abnormally generous, frighteningly insightful, and I fully believe it is possible to kill a vampire with kindness. This much compassion cannot be healthy. Is it because their eyes are yellow? Are mine yellow? I don't think they are. I should have checked in the mirror before I broke it, but I am sure they are as red as Jasper's. Does that make us less kind? Can vampires get migraines? I think I may get one soon. "I'll be in my study shortly," Carlisle is saying, and I realize that I have completely missed something. "Whenever you're ready."

I fidget with my fingers out of nerves. An angry vampire, I can deal with. I have no clue what to do with a nice one. "Sure," I agree, looking down at the foam between us. _Come hell or waters high, _I hear someone singing in my head. A woman that sounds familiar to me. She has a smiling face, with short, russet hair. I know she is flighty. A memory. Where did _that_ come from? I grasp desperately at the residual image, frowning at my inability to remember. Why can't I _remember? _"_Come hell or waters high,_" I sing softly, trying to mimic the sound in my mind. "_You'll never see me cry…_" My voice does not match the woman's, but I look to Esmé with hope. "Does that sound familiar?"

I am disappointed when Esmé shakes her head.

"_Share!_" someone says from the first floor, and I peer over the banister to see Emmett's Rosie looking back at me. I am annoyed; not only does that name seem as foreign to me as everything else does, but she is not allowed to be wet and foamy and _still_ look like a goddess. She does, though, and I envy her. "It's one of her songs," she explains.

"Share," I repeat, tasting the name. I scrunch my nose. "What kind of a name is Share?" I muse aloud, glaring at the wall across from me.

"C-h-e-r," Rosalie spells out for me. Cher? I shake my head. I still don't know who that is.

Esmé reminds me that I am still in a state of undress and leads me to another lavatory. I assume this is the males', as there is a lack of vanity, and it is much simpler in terms of decoration. I like it. To my embarrassment, Esmé stays with me as I rinse off the last vestiges of gunk and foam, helping me get rid of the garbage in my hair. When she helps me dry my body, I am grateful for her, but cannot swallow the concept that I may require a bathroom buddy whenever I decide to clean myself. This dependency seems wrong with anyone other than my sire, but even _he_ cannot help me with this. Damn my genes. There would be a considerably lower sense of humiliation if he and I were of the same gender.

A towel is wrapped around me again, purple this time, and another is thrown around my hair, twisting until both towel and hair lie atop my head. How did she do that? I refrain from asking as we pad down the hall again, where the water level has dropped considerably. Jasper is nowhere in sight. I sidestep patches of foam, following Esmé to a large room I assume is her own.

The walls are painted a soothing powder blue, the carpet white and soft between my toes. I want to roll around on the floor, to feel the carpet against my bare body, but I withhold the urge. I am told to consider the pile of clothes assorted by color atop the monstrosity of fluff they call a mattress. Esmé seems to have an affinity for color and order, I notice, and if I had to peg _her _as a color, I would choose them all. An Esmé rainbow. I look at the massive choice of wardrobe set before me, unable to discern the difference between one ensemble and the next. Too many choices. In avoidance of making a decision, I catch sight of something that shimmers on the wooden bureau to my right, and I move to inspect it. I hope Esmé does not mind me exploring her domain.

It's a piece of jewelry, I realize, fascinated by its natural shine. I wonder if the shampoo Esmé gave me earlier would have made my hair shine like this. I poke a silver loop that feels cold against my fingertips, little shapes dangling from the roped band. There are gems embedded in the stars. I am fascinated by the array, and smile at the gentle chime whenever I swipe my finger across them, the charms to clinking together. I nudge it harder, and make a melody.

"It's a bracelet," explains Esmé, who stands at my elbow. There is a fond smile in her voice. "It was a gift from Carlisle."

I am entranced by the shine. "What was the occasion?" I ask.

"No occasion," she confesses. "He told me he needed to buy it for me. So he did."

I smile. How sweet. "It's pretty." I want to touch it, but I do not want to break it.

"Would you like to wear it?"

I drop it on the bureau, embarrassed because I do. "N-no." Why am I so selfish? Have I no control?

She does not comment, and brings me back to the clothes I have yet to choose. I glare at the materials, still confused, and ultimately pick two pieces at random. I don't dare to touch them for fear of a disaster, and she patiently dresses me after I discard the towels, sliding the teal shorts up my legs, the black sleeveless shirt down my arms. Undergarments, I am told, will be available once a shopping expedition can be arranged. Am I uncomfortable? Nope, in fact, I quite enjoy my lack of underwear. Shoes? I shake my head; if I can destroy a home _without _shoes, I don't want to know what will happen if I wear them. She surprises me by retrieving the trinket on her bureau, and though I refuse and tell her that I cannot wear it, she smiles that smile of hers and slides it up my foot, as it is too large for my wrist. I feel horrible, because I am secretly pleased and I know I should not feel this way.

When she tells me to sit, I comply and plop on the bed, my legs hanging over the edge. Her fingers begin to thread through my damp hair, combing through the snarls and tangles, and I purr with pleasure. It feels amazing. My toes curl in the carpet as she pampers my scalp, and I absently kick my feet a little to hear the jingle around my ankle. I close my eyes and relax, leaning into her touch. I could stay here forever. When she is finished, it is much too soon, but my hair is dry and soft and falls to my waist in gentle waves that feel like heaven on my cheeks.

"Why are you helping me?" I finally gather the courage to ask as she paints my toenails. Aquamarine, she calls it. I feel like a brat, but I cannot stifle my curiosity.

She is beginning on my fingernails when she answers. "You're family, dear."

I am? "We're related?"

She shakes her head in the negative. "None of us are. But you're one of us."

There is a sinking sensation in my chest. "Is it because…" I don't want to say it. I don't want it to be true. "Is it…" I grit my teeth and barrel on. "Is it because you think Edward is my mate?" The words are blades on my tongue. I adore my sire with an irrationality that could be considered alarming, I like Esmé, I like this family that does not scold me for my blunders, even with their odd yellow eyes, and I want it badly, but I do not know if I can stomach the price. What will I have to endure in order to stay here? What will I have to sacrifice?

Esmé caps the little bottle of paint, her task finished. She moves beside me and strokes my hair. "Mating isn't something you _choose_ to do," she explains, though I a part of me knows this. "You have the choice of accepting them or not, but the emotion is not something you can force. It's something that _happens_. It's something you feel, deep inside, and when you find it…" Her eyes sparkle in a memory I cannot see. "His scent is the air you crave. When he moves, you move. He's the moon, the stars, the sun and the Earth, wrapped up together. There isn't a moment that goes by that he's not in the back of your mind, and there's nothing that will ever keep you from his side." She snaps back into the present, a shy grin on her face. "There are some downsides, however. It's not all poetry and pretty paintings," she warns playfully.

I slide closer, fascinated. "Like what?" I want to know. I've already broken my vow to spare Esmé my questions. I might as well make the most of it.

"Well, there's the jealousy," she says. "It's a bit alarming. You won't _believe_ how many times I've contemplated killing a woman that comes too close to Carlisle." She is correct—I don't believe it. Esmé? I could never imagine this woman killing in a jealous rage. "There was this stewardess that touched his arm once. A _human_, and I wanted to rip her apart. I'll spare you the details, but it's the reason he purchased a private plane," she laughs.

I grin with her, but the emphasis on the stewardess—the _human_, as if the faceless flight attendant was a lesser—bothers me. I don't know why, and I do not dwell on it. I poke at the silver on my ankle. "That doesn't sound so bad," I muse.

"It is when you can't help it," she insists. "Especially when you react that way towards family. When Alice and Jasper joined us," she continues, and I have to bite back the growl the sound of those two named together invoke. "I was nearing the end of my newborn stage. Poor Alice." Her voice is soft and regretful. "I nearly tore her head off when she approached Carlisle."

"Newborn?" I ask, because I do not want to think of my sire and that pixie together.

She smiles at me. "It's what we call your first year as a vampire. Carlisle will explain the finer details, but as a newborn, you are stronger now than you ever will be. Have you noticed how easily you are distracted, or how quickly your emotions change?" I nod, and try not to feel slighted at the description. "That's how it is for all of us. There are a few exceptions; Alice, for instance, can see the future, so she was not as temperamental as most of our kind can be during that phase." She notices my tension, and misinterprets it. "Once the year passes, you will settle down, I promise."

Alice. Alice, who can see the future. Alice, who did not break homes. Alice and Jasper. Jasper and Alice. They came to this coven together. Did that mean…? I cannot quell my rising dread. "Are they… are they mated?"

Esmé hesitates. "Alice and Jasper?" she clarifies, stalling. I nod. "Yes, dear. They've been together for decades."

Something tears into my chest, wraps its icy fingers around my heart, and squeezes harder than I can bear. It stings, it stabs, it claws at my insides. I am burning with rage, I am drowning in sorrow. I want to cry and scream and sink my teeth into something, _anything_. It's not fair. I never had a chance. It's not _fair. _He is _mine_, but he is _hers_ and I realize that _I_ am the one that does not fit into the equation. I do not belong—with Edward, with Jasper, with any of them, and I long to. I am a remainder. Esmé never actually answered me—_"Is it because you think Edward is my mate?"—_and I wonder if it was on purpose. Is my admission into the family conditional? What do I do if I cannot force myself to feel for the bag of venom I so easily beat into submission? Have I _ever _felt for him? Is that why I am told he is my intended? If so, why can I not summon those emotions now? How did this happen? _Why_ did this happen? Perhaps the answers lie in the memories I do not have, but what good are they if I cannot remember?

Who was I? What did the Bella of before do, say, think, _feel? _Is this me the _real_ me, or was the old me the right one? Does this mean that _this_ me is the wrong one, the flawed one?

I'm whining again, gripping at my hair as I rock to the tempo of my unsteady thoughts. Esmé is saying something, is trying to console me, but I do not want comfort. My mind is in a thousand different directions, circling and twisting and scattering in more ways than I can keep track of. She lays a hand on my arm and I growl at her. I don't want to be touched. I want to claw and bite and shred until this gaping hole in my chest is full again.

I need to run, to feed, to get _out of here. _I need the wind to calm me and blood to fill the emptiness. I need to feel substantial. Whole. I hurry to the door and I, for a moment, forget my handicap and move to open it. The knob bends and breaks, the door slams against the wall and one of its hinges rattle, dangerously close to falling. I am useless. I am pathetic. _A remainder_. Flawed. Wrong. When the slab of wood swings back towards me, I kick at it viciously, snarling. My temper snaps. I screech at the wood, offended by it, furious at it for its weakness. The door is reduced to splinters in a second and in a tantrum, I drive my fist through the wall. My foot follows suit. Again and again, I beat at the wall until the corridor is cluttered with rubble.

It's not enough for me. I turn on the wooden banister and it, too, is helpless in the face of my wrath.

A pair of arms clamp around me, imprisoning my limbs, and I struggle against the hold. I see a myriad of faces and disregard the audience. I know it is Jasper that tries to contain me, can taste him in the air, but I do not care. I am bursting with malcontent, itching to destroy. "_Stop_," I hear him command. The pull to obey is fierce, but I am stronger. The anguish, the hatred, the murderous ire fuels my disobedience. A fog of artificial calm suffocates me. I rage harder, gripping my anger with desperation. More fog. More commands to quiet down, to _stop_. What's wrong, Bella? _Everything_. Calm, Bella. No. Stop, Bella. Never. I will _never _stop. My cries usher in the darkness, and as the ardor blinds me to reason, I fight it with every fiber of my existence. They _will not_ force me into submission. I will rip them all apart, I will burn down this house, I will slaughter all who dare to impede my path. I scream. Jasper does not release me, and I lose it.

I roar, long and loud.


End file.
